


a stitch in time

by NoStringsOnMe



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Yarn Shop, Flirting, Fluff, Knitting, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Social Media, Strangers to Lovers, Sweater Wearing Dumb Dorks, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, yarn crafts for days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25091959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoStringsOnMe/pseuds/NoStringsOnMe
Summary: “I’ll take your word for it.”“You should. I’m the professional, you can trust me.”“I don’t know about that. You seem quite nefarious to me. Preying on clueless customers and trying to draw them into your yarn cult. That’s what’s going on. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”|| Or, the one where Steve owns a yarn shop and Bucky is the clueless customer trying to buy his sister's birthday present.AKA Steve and Bucky are sweater wearing dumb dorksAKA the author projecting her niche interests onto her faves as a paper thin premise for them to fall in love.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 61
Kudos: 196
Collections: stucky





	a stitch in time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steveandbucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveandbucky/gifts).



Steve Rogers was a perfectly respectable small business owner. He had scrimped and saved, taken out a more than substantial loan, and had even negotiated with his landlord for cheaper rent on his building, to finally be able to open his own yarn shop-come-cafe in the heart of Brooklyn. 

Star Spangled was a beautiful shop that he had poured his heart and soul into. Open and airy, the ground floor was split-level. The sunken centre of the shop was dominated by a coffee bar that, in his humble opinion, served the best coffee in the district. There was plenty of comfortable seating where customers could sit over a coffee and work on their projects, or shoot the shit with their friends, and there was another separate till point for all yarn-related purchases. Floor to ceiling shelves lined the walls on the upper level and they were filled with all manner of colourful yarns from New York’s finest indie dyers. There was a mezzanine too, which was often rented out in the evenings for classes, art events, and lectures because goddammit, Steve Rogers was a pillar of this here community. Coloured glass mobiles made by his mother hung in the windows and cast pretty dancing rainbows across the dark wood floors and immaculately kept white walls. 

Steve loved his shop. He’d worked himself to the bone for his shop. But, at that very moment, on a bright afternoon in October with the sun streaming through the windows, he’d give it all up in a heartbeat if it meant that he could get this guy’s number.

He stood near the door holding two skeins of yarn looking thoroughly dejected. His head swivelled between the two skeins and even from Steve’s post at the counter, he could see the panic rising in his pale eyes. Steve felt for the poor bastard. He was clearly out of his depth. Normally, Steve would be bouncing over there with his 200lbs of ridiculous muscle, blonde hair, blue eyes, and 6”2’ frame, and he’d get to watch the customer give him the once over and realise he wasn’t the 5”0’ woman they were expecting to be the owner. It still gave him a kick, even after 5 years. Except, he had not bounced over to this poor, confused bastard because the moment he had clapped eyes on him, he’d been rooted to the spot.

The guy was gorgeous. He was tall and broad-shouldered with pale grey eyes and long, wavy brown hair that Steve definitely wasn’t thinking about running his hands through. Even at this distance, he could see the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the incredibly endearing, and not at all attractive, way he chewed on his bottom lip.

“If you don’t go help that poor son of a bitch out, I will lose all respect for you,” muttered America, elbowing Steve in the ribs and fixing him with a dark-eyed stare.

At 21 America Chavez was precocious and deadpan and loved nothing more than to rib her boss when she thought he was being a dumbass, which, as it happened, was most of the time. If it was anyone else, Steve might have minded, but he’d known America and her family for years. They lived across the hall from him and her mothers loved to pick his brains about all things crochet.

Giving himself a shake, Steve brushed down his jeans, scrubbed a hand through his beard, and marched over to quite possibly the most beautiful man that had ever set foot into his store. He was an adult. And a professional. He could do this. He  _ did _ do this. Every day in fact.

“You look like you could use a hand,” he said as he appeared at the man’s shoulder.

He started, head whipping around, and shock crumpled to despair in seconds.

“Oh my god, please. I have no idea what I’m doing,” he moaned and held up the two skeins as evidence. In one hand was a black and red speckled sock yarn that Steve knew for a fact knitted up like a dream, and in the other was a chunky, pale blue number that, should it be made into a hat, would bring out the man’s eyes. “Please? It’s for my sister’s birthday and she sent me here.”

Despite the high edge whine, his voice was husky with just enough gravel to pique Steve’s interest even more than it already was. If that was at all possible.

“Sure thing,” Steve beamed, clapping his hands together and laughing away whatever nerves had stopped him coming over here in the first place. He could talk about yarn for hours. This was  _ fine _ . “Why don’t you tell me a bit about your sister . . .”

He left the sentence hanging and extended a hand towards the man in the hopes he’d get the hint.

“Bucky, my name is Bucky.”

“Right, Bucky,” Steve smiled, feeling quite pleased with himself that the stupid little ploy had worked. “What does she do? What does she make? Is she into felting, knitting, macrame? Whatever you need, you can find here.”

“Like a date,” he thought, wistfully. “Please buy my yarn and go out with me, it’s today’s special offer just for you.”

“Uh, I mean, she made this?” Bucky said, pinching the navy blue sweater he wore between two fingers and sounding unsure. “Said it was made with blue-faced something and that I was ‘never under any circumstances to put it in my machine’.”

Bucky pulled a face, no doubt hearing his sister’s warning in his mind. Steve chuckled. The sweater itself was well made; he let his eyes wander over it, most definitely to appraise it’s construction and not to appreciate the way it stretched over Bucky’s chest and shoulders. No, he was looking at the even tension, the neck shaping, and the fact that not a single seam was crooked. Of course. He loved a well-made sweater, it just so happened that he was sporting a rather fantastic white, cable knit number himself.

“Oh yeah, never put that baby in the washer or you’ll suffer the wrath of one very unhappy knitter,” Steve said with a solemn nod and his best attempt at a serious expression. It lasted all of about two seconds before he was grinning from ear to ear once more. “Your sister must really love you if she’s willing to make you something like this. A sweater is like, the holy grail.”

Steve had only ever gifted three people sweaters: his ma, Natasha and Sam. Everyone else received hats and scarves and were grateful. That’s just how it was. He didn’t make the rules. 

“Oh, I know it is. She made that quite clear to me,” Bucky informed him with a grimace. “Half the time, I’m scared to wear the thing in case I fuck it up.”

“A common feeling, believe me. Now, what else does your sister make?” 

Steve was relaxed now. This is what he was good at. He loved speaking to customers and trying to work out what they wanted, even if they didn’t know what that was. Talking to people came easily to him, had done since he was a kid. When you’re towed to and from art shows every other weekend growing up by your mother, you learn how to spin a good yarn, if you’ll pardon the pun. What’s more, it made him an excellent salesman. It put people at ease.

“Crop tops. Half her wardrobe is crop tops,” said Bucky, still chewing on his bottom lip. He put the yarns back on the shelf and turned to give Steve his full attention.

“Favourite colour?”

“Blue.” The answer tripped off his tongue like a reflex with a firm nod for emphasis. It was the surest he’d sounded during their entire conversation so far. 

“Okay. Well, that leaves the million dollar question, what size does she normally wear?”

Bucky shot him a wide-eyed look that just about sent Steve’s heart into overdrive. 

“Christ, uh, XL I think,” he stammered, running a hand through his hair. 

Steve tracked the movement, distracted for just a second too long by the way his hair fluffed out over his shoulders. Bucky looked at him expectantly. Clearing his throat, Steve offered his suggestion with a shy, apologetic smile.

“Get her a whole project,” he said. “When you do a craft like this people will often just get you a random single skein - which is great, don’t get me wrong! But after a while you just don't know what you’re going to do with them all. So, if you want my advice, buy a pattern and enough yarn for her to make it and you’ll be considered the world’s best brother in a heartbeat.”

This part he said behind his hand in a conspiratorial whisper, which, much to his delight, made Bucky duck his head, a pinkish hue rising in his cheeks. He led him around the side of the store to a bookcase full of patterns where he selected a couple of options before pulling out his phone and doing some calculations to work out just how much yarn this guy would need to buy. 

They made light small talk and Steve asked thoughtful, unobtrusive questions like; ‘ _ Are you local? _ ’ - he was, born and raised in Red Hook -  _ ‘What do you do?’ _ \- computer engineer - and  _ ‘Got any pets?’ _ \- a white cat named Alpine. In response to this last question, Bucky dug out his phone and spent several, very enthusiastic, minutes showing Steve pictures and videos of a very spoiled looking Norwegian Forest Cat with a thick, shaggy coat and bright green eyes that he said he rescued from a shelter a few years ago. His eagerness and evident devotion to the feline shone through and Steve felt a warm bubble of emotion swell in his chest. It was a feeling he’d very much like to bask in, to explore it further. But, as he kept reminding himself, he was a goddamn  _ professional _ and, despite his deep and very loud desire to the contrary, he was not going to flirt outright with a customer. Leaving Bucky to consider his choices, he decided to restock some shelves because he had to keep up appearances somehow.

Eventually, Bucky chose a pattern from  _ Scarlet Stitches _ and several skeins of yarn from  _ Ragnarok and the Hammer _ . Steve had watched him mulling over his choices from across the store as he tidied stands and put through customer purchases. He’d spent a good five minutes or more debating between ‘ _ Hela’s damnation _ ’ and ‘ _ Odin’s Treasure Chest _ ’ but in the end, he bought both and was positively beaming as Steve put through his purchase. 

“I can’t thank you enough. I really think she’s going to love it,” he babbled, leaning forward on the counter and watching him gift wrap the yarn in several layers of glittery tissue paper. 

Just as he was putting the finishing touches to the wrapping, Bucky caught sight of the neat stack of pamphlets next to the till. He plucked one from the top of the pile and flipped through it, examining the pictures with a disconcerting intensity. 

“Wait you guys were the one that hosted that street party during Pride this year?” he questioned, surprise colouring his voice as he looked up from the pages. He flipped it round to show off the double-page spread and tapped the picture of Steve in front of the shop, head thrown back in a booming laugh and with his arms around America, Carol, and Maria who looked equally as gleeful.

Steve grinned and nodded. 

“Kind of,” he admitted. “It was a joint effort between us and a few of the other small businesses in the area.”

The street party had been his brain child and to see it come together had quite possibly been his crowning achievement, other than opening his shop, of course. It had taken months of planning, crowdfunding, and arguing with the city council but he’d done it. In all honesty, he didn’t actually remember much of the day itself, much like an over-stimulated bride and groom, he’d been too full of adrenaline to take in much of the day he’d spent so long putting together. 

“He’s being modest. It was his idea. He’s the one that got everyone on board.” America appeared, unbidden, at his side. Seemingly popping up from nowhere with the sole intent to try and embarrass him. He shot her a look, thankful that Bucky was still too interested in the pamphlet to see him shoot daggers at his employee. America, nonplussed, stuck her tongue out at him.

“I actually came to this with my sister. It was a really fun day, really chill,” he mused, bobbing his head. 

“There’s plenty more information in there about everything else we have going on in there. Maybe you’ll find something else on the programme that piques your interest and we’ll see you down here sometime soon.” Steve tried to keep the hopeful edge out of his voice but he didn’t think he succeeded. Bucky gave no indication, either way, he was still too busy leafing through the shop’s programme of events, completely absorbed. At his side, he could feel America physically restraining herself from making vomiting motions at him. 

“Yeah, I think I will,” murmured Bucky after a moment, giving himself a shake and gathering up his bag. “Thanks for this.”

He shot Steve a broad, warm smile that seeped under his skin in the same, comfortable way that a bright patch of sunlight would. Steve watched him leave with more than a little disappointment and not so healthy dose of hope that he would be back down to take advantage of the shop’s varied social calendar. They were a cornerstone of the community after all. It would be in his best interest. 

“You have a crush,” piped up America at his elbow. He shot her his most withering stare.

“Quiet you. Go clear some tables.” He shooed her away, the reprimand barely registering with her as she scampered off to gather up dirty mugs and plates. “If you need me I’ll be in my office,” he called to her retreating back.

All he received in return was a dismissive wave.

However, an hour into filling out order forms and collating the figures he had to hand off to the accountant at the end of the month, Steve was just about to call it quits when his phone pinged four times in quick succession. It startled him. He’d been in the zone. It buzzed across the table with such angry insistence that it made him push his glasses to the top of his head to check it. Rubbing tired eyes, he checked his lock screen only to see:

**@buckeroo** is now following  **@star_spangled** on Instagram

**@buckeroo** is now following  **@manwithaplan** on Instagram

**@buckeroo** is now following  **@star_spangled** on Twitter

**@buckeroo** is now following  **@manwithaplan** on Twitter

Frowning, Steve clicked into the Instagram notification. Oh.  _ Oh _ . It was Bucky. It was Bucky at the gym. It was Bucky at the farmer’s market. It was Bucky at a rooftop bar in Lower Manhattan. Without being able to help himself, he began scrolling. The numbers could wait. Right? Because this was far more interesting viewing. He needed the break, he told himself. Just five minutes, he told himself. What’s the harm, he told himself.

Fifteen minutes later and 216 weeks deep, Steve followed him back. From his personal account.

“Really, Steve? This is just sad. Don’t you find this sad, Sam?” Natasha drawled later that night, leaning against the countertop that Steve currently had his forehead pressed against. He moaned into the faux marble and she continued flicking through his phone. Neither she nor Sam had been that amused by his inability to secure a date.

“It’s not your best look, dude,” was Sam’s only contribution to the conversation as he finished off dinner preparations by the stove. Steve shifted on his stool but didn’t raise his head.

“In my defense, he followed me first,” he groaned, as if that would make his position any better. 

Of course, it wouldn’t. He’d known Sam Wilson and Natasha Romanoff for years and they both had finely tuned bullshit detectors which simultaneously worked for and against him. On this occasion, it was most definitely the latter. There would be no commiserations here.

“You’re ridiculous. You realise this?” Natasha said

“Yes, I do.”

“Then why don’t you slide into his DMs like a normal adult and ask him out and quit being such a baby.”

“I can’t ask out a customer,” he whined, leaning his chin on his forearms and staring, dejected, into the middle distance.

“He’s just liked three of your most thirst trappy photos, Steve. Spare me.”

“That’s his prerogative,” he sniffed, trying to sound more disinterested than he actually felt. “Give me that.”

He swiped his phone back from his friend and pocketed it, staunching ignoring the rising heat in his cheeks. 

Later that night, once he was full from Sam’s cooking and was ensconced in a quiet subway carriage back to Flatbush, he pulled his phone out and found his way back to back to Bucky’s Instagram. Normally, he would use this time to work on whatever project he had on his needles but the shawl for his ma stayed nestled in the bottom of his bag. 

There was a new update. It wasn’t of Bucky but was of a brunette woman. She was flanked by two girls that Steve suspected were her sisters if the dark hair and pale eyes were anything to go by. There was a ‘Happy Birthday’ headband atop her head and she was grinning at the sparkler laden cake in front of her. The caption read,  _ ‘the happiest of birthdays to  _ **_@beccaboo_ ** _. love you, sis _ ’. There was a single comment underneath from  **@beccaboo** :  _ ‘You’re gross. Don’t talk to me _ .”

Steve smiled indulgently and liked the photo. It seemed he’d left his gift-giving to the last possible moment. Then, in a move that was probably against his better judgement, he sent him a message.

**@manwithaplan**

Was nice to meet you today. Hope your sister liked her gift. :)

By the time he arrived back at his apartment and had climbed into bed, there was a reply.

**@buckeroo**

Right back at you. She did. You saved my ass. I don’t think I’d have been forgiven for giving a shitty gift.

Then, a few minutes later: 

**@buckeroo**

See you Saturday. We’re coming to the Harlem renaissance lecture. :)

This made Steve grin and a warm feeling blossomed in his chest. It was a heady thought, the idea of seeing Bucky again. Sure, he might have his own set of rules about asking out customers but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends, right? The rules stretched to that, surely. And he decided they did. 

“Hey Steve, your boyfriend is here,” hissed America, looking over Steve’s shoulder with a wicked grin and a glint in her eye that was more than a little mischievous. 

Steve didn’t need to turn around to know who she meant because ever since his first encounter with Bucky she had teased him mercilessly about it. Choosing to ignore America’s jibe, he glanced over his shoulder to see Bucky entering the shop tailed by a woman who could only be his sister. He recognised her from the photo he’d put up. She had the same pale eyes, dark hair, and sloping nose that betrayed their relation. She was short, too, broad-shouldered like her brother with thick thighs and round arms. Silver rings flashed on her fingers as she spoke, bright and animated. Bucky nodded along, smiling with the warm fondness of family, eyes crinkling at the corners. Steve’s heart stuttered.

He caught his eye from across the store and waved with a brightness that left Steve’s heart echoing in his burning ears. Returning the wave, he tried his best to smile but it felt more like a grimace. Since that first meeting, they had been messaging back and forth, and Steve was more than a little excited to see him again. But before he could dwell, he was distracted by the appearance of Nakia and Okoye.

Nakia beamed, drawing him into a warm embrace and placing two swift kisses on his cheeks. She had to stand on her tiptoes to reach him. Okoye gave him a firm handshake. Two women before him were dressed in African print dresses. Nakia in orange and teal and Okoye in a deep red hue that matched the intricate red and black tattoo inked across her head. 

“Everything is ready for you upstairs, you just need to plug in your laptop to the projector and you’re good to go,” he told them.

They got themselves set up and everyone settled in. Steve hovered at the back, arms and ankles crossed as he leaned against a table, foot jangling. The mezzanine was packed. They’d expected a good crowd but this was more than even Steve had imagined would come and he was known for shooting high with his estimations. He was glad. It had taken a while, but the lecture series was finally getting off the ground. 

For the first ten minutes, he was too distracted to take in much of what was being said about prominent female artists of the Harlem Renaissance. He was too busy looking at the back of a certain someone's head and wondering when he’d get to talk to him next. But then, he had to give himself a shake. He was being ridiculous. This was a subject he was interested in and wanted to know more about, so he turned his full attention towards the screen and pulled a small notebook from his back pocket to take notes.

Once he had his head screwed on straight, the lecture was fascinating. They focused on the likes of Lois Mailou Jones and Augusta Savage and took a deep dive into their lives and art. Steve took dutiful notes so that he’d be able to look up more at a later date and once it had finished up he bought one of the glossy paperback books on sale. 

Slowly, people moved downstairs and began to mingle. Carol manned the coffee bar and when he went to check in with her, she shooed him away because she was ‘fine, just fine.’ He did a lap of the shop and spoke to a few customers but he couldn't stop himself looking for  _ him _ .

Steve saw Bucky perching on the arm of a sofa flicking through Okoye’s book while he waited for his sister. Becca was across the shop engrossed in conversation with America and Nakia. It looked like she would be some time, so grabbing the coffee pot from behind the bar, he ambled over. Bucky looked up at the sound of his approach, face brightening and bathing Steve in warmth.

“You want some more coffee?” he asked, holding up the pot. 

“I would but I think you’ve just about ripped my bank balance to shreds,” Bucky laughed, indicating the small stack of books at his hip. He’d bought one of each.

“Oh come on now, that’s all Nakia and Okoye’s doing,” Steve argued, trying to keep an even, serious tone but failing. “They’re too persuasive for their own good.”

“Sure, and you had nothing to do with the $100 yarn purchase I made last week.” Bucky was deadpan, head cocked and chin raised, challenging him to say otherwise. 

And, never one to back down, Steve said with a nonchalant shrug, “That’s on you, pal. I was just doing my job.”

Bucky scoffed, rolling his eyes and grumbling something Steve didn’t quite catch. He filled his mug anyway.

“Here, it’s on the house. Don’t tell the owner, yeah?” he said in a conspiratorial whisper and shot him a wink.

To his supreme delight, this appeared to leave Bucky more than a little flustered. He shuffled in place, dropping his eyes, and there was a touch more colour in his cheeks than there had been only seconds before.

“Your secret’s safe,” he mumbled, taking his refill and taking a long sip so that he didn’t have to look at Steve’s grinning face.

They lapsed into silence. It wasn’t awkward but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. Steve didn’t want to leave him quite yet. It felt like there was some gravitational pull keeping him in place and to leave would disrupt the natural order. Or maybe, just maybe, he had a crush and would do anything to keep talking to the attractive man with the pretty hair and even prettier eyes.

“I know I’ve already asked but did your sister really like the gift?” he asked when his eyes alighted on Becca again. Nakia had extracted herself, now she only had America cornered, and, much to his surprise, America actually looked like she was having a good time.

“Loved it,” Bucky replied with something that sounded like a sigh of relief. He nodded towards his sister. “See the top she’s wearing? That’s the one you picked out.”

“I have excellent taste.”

“Yeah, you do,” Bucky conceded, knocking one booted foot against Steve’s, playful and approaching familiar. It made Steve soften, shoulders easing downwards and muscles lengthening. “You make this one?”

He gestured broadly, indicating the burgundy and grey sweater he was wearing. It was one of Steve’s favourites. It had a fluffy, leaf-patterned alpaca on the front. 

“Sure did,” he said, filling with pride, unable to stop himself from puffing up and preening under his gaze.

“Damn. Wish I could persuade Becca to make me one of those.” Bucky’s eyes skated up and down and a flush started to creep up Steve’s neck.

“You should learn yourself. You’ll appreciate it more,” he said, tapping the side of Bucky’s boot with his toe, trying to mirror his earlier gesture.

“Are you really trying to get me to part with more cash, Steve?  _ Really _ ?” he cried, askance. But his grey eyes were laughing at him. “You’re killing me here.”

“I’m just saying. You might like it. It’s very therapeutic.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should. I’m the professional, you can trust me.”

“I don’t know about that. You seem quite nefarious to me. Preying on clueless customers and trying to draw them into your yarn cult. That’s what’s going on. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, shaking his head in mock solemnity, brow knitted together and lips pursed into a tight, pink bow.

“Alright, you caught me,” Steve chuckled, holding up the hand that wasn’t clutching the coffeepot. Bucky tsked, clicking his tongue.

“Knew it. You’re too good to be true.”

Before Steve could ask what he meant, he heard Nakia and Okoye calling for him. He left Bucky with the promise he’d be right back and went to speak to his friends. By the time they had sorted out the shares of the night’s cash and confirmed the next lecture date, however, Bucky had left. And Steve would have been lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed.

**@buckeroo**

Sorry I dipped before you came back. 

Had to meet a friend for dinner in the Village.

**@manwithaplan**

Hey, no worries. Maybe I’ll see you at the next lecture?

**@buckeroo**

Sure. 

Or maybe I’ll swing by those classes of yours sometime. 

See what the fuss is all about.

**@manwithaplan**

Who was it complaining about a yarn cult again?

**@buckeroo**

Shut up.

This just means your nefarious tactics are working.

**@manwithaplan**

Shame that.

**@buckeroo**

Would you judge me if I said the reason was mostly to do with that alpaca sweater you were wearing?

**@manwithaplan**

Really now?

And what about said alpaca sweater caught your eye?

**@buckeroo**

I need one.

**@buckeroo**

And when I asked Becca to make me one she told me to fuck off.

So now it falls to me and my distinct lack of knitting ability.

**@manwithaplan**

Thursdays at 8. See you then. ;)

Steve didn’t actually expect Bucky to turn up. They had joked about it all week but he hadn’t taken him seriously. But at five to eight on Thursday evening there he was.

“This had better be as therapeutic as you’re claiming it is,” he warned, brandishing a pair of knitting needles as he settled on a sofa.

There were a few other newbies taking their seats around him and few regulars too. Most were young women who Steve estimated were between 20 and 35.

“If you hate it that much then you can use the needles to stab out your frustration at the world,” Steve said ducking out of their way and blocking the needle tips with the palm of his hand. “Though I’d prefer if you didn’t stab me.”

Bucky glowered but it was a superficial thing that split into a wide grin after only a second. When he smiled, he smiled with his whole face. It lit him up, his eyes crinkled at the edges, laughter lurking just beneath the surface, his nose scrunched, and his mouth would curve up, teeth flashing. It was infectious. And he very much liked the fact that he could be the one to make him smile. 

“No promises. Jury’s still out on whether this is a cult or not.”

“Oh yes, I have the rest of the poor bastards tied up in my basement using only the best silk blend wool,” Steve quipped, succeeding in keeping a straight face, and handed him a ball of chunky acrylic yarn.

“Now that, I would like to see.” Bucky took the ball and tossed it back and forth. His grin had gone from cheeky and cheerful to full-frontal, shit-eating in naught point two seconds.

“I’m sure you would.”

Heat spread across Steve’s cheeks and turned the tops of his ears pink. He dropped his eyes and busied himself handing out yarn to the rest of the class. As he moved around the sunken section of the shop, he could feel Bucky’s pale eyes tracking every movement and watching every conversation. It was enough that it made him feel very aware of all his limbs. It made him feel too tall, too broad, too big. Of course, the shop was beautiful and airy, but with the sheer weight of his gaze, it suddenly felt much too claustrophobic. 

But there was no time to dwell or feel self-conscious no matter how aware he suddenly was of the tightness of his henley across his shoulders. As if it would somehow make him smaller or less obvious, Steve pulled his cardigan back on, wrapped it close around himself, and began his class.

“Yeah, that’s it. Loop around the needle, draw it through the stitch, and pull it off. There you go, just like that.”

Bucky made a noise in the back of his throat that landed somewhere between a grunt and a high-pitched whine. His brow was furrowed and the very tip of his tongue poked out from the corner of his mouth. Smiling from behind his hand, Steve had to keep reminding himself that he was a  _ professional _ because, really, he shouldn’t be finding this quite as endearing as he did. 

“I’m not feeling very relaxed,” he grumbled as he made a few more shaky stitches.

“That’s because you’re learning. You don’t have the muscle memory yet.” Steve adjusted his position so he wasn’t crouching, moving to sit next to him on the sofa. “Careful, you’ve dropped a stitch. Here, let me get this one and I’ll show you how to fix it.”

“You make it look easy,” Bucky moaned, flopping backward, knees splayed, and running a hand across his face.

“In fairness, I have a 20-year head start.” He handed the piece back and Bucky glared at it as if it had offended him. “Keep going, you’ll get there.”

And he did. Bucky Barnes, Steve quickly learned, was a stubborn son of a bitch. That first lesson was fraught with much gnashing of teeth and expletive-filled grumbling but he persevered and at least got a dishcloth out of it. A slightly wonky dishcloth, but a dishcloth nonetheless. 

Every Thursday evening after that he appeared armed with his needles and a look of sheer determination. Whatever Steve threw at him, he gave it his best shot even if it had him uttering obscenities under his breath. In truth, he picked it up quickly and seemed to be throwing himself headfirst into his new hobby. After that first week, Bucky took to sending Steve progress pictures of whatever it was he was working on and it might have bothered him had he not been so utterly charmed.

**@star_spangled** Here’s one from one of our beginner students.  **@buckeroo** joined us three weeks ago and has already come on leaps and bounds, wouldn’t you agree? This is his first hat and we can’t wait to see what else he makes!

**@beccaboo** i expect a sweater by christmas **@buckeroo**

**@buckeroo @beccaboo** you’ll get a scarf and be grateful

**@manwithaplan @buckeroo** i’ve taught you well

**@buckeroo**

Am I too much of a novice to make socks?

**@manwithaplan**

Do it.

Don’t listen to anyone who says socks are hard.

They’re liars.

**@buckeroo**

Okay but you’ll be on hand to help when I inevitably fuck up right?

**@manwithaplan**

Always.

  
  


“Tell me something,” said Natasha as she sprawled across Steve’s couch, legs crossed in his lap. The TV was down low, playing some game show neither of them were paying attention to. Dinner plates littered the coffee table. Steve held up a finger so he could finish counting his stitches before gesturing for her to continue. “You’ve known this guy for, what, a month now? You message each other on the daily, you still find him ridiculously attractive, and you’ve done  _ nothing _ about it?”

Putting the shawl for his ma aside, Steve glanced at his friend. She was nestled in the corner of the L and she had her head cocked at him, smirking like she knew exactly how this conversation was going to go.

“Are you really set on this whole, ‘can’t ask out a customer’ thing?”

“It seems a bit skeevy,” he mumbled, rubbing his fingers over the shawl’s fine lacework. Even as he said it, he knew his heart wasn’t in it. 

He liked the guy. A lot. He looked forward to seeing him each week and every time a notification came through that he’d messaged him his stomach did this weird flip flop that left his heart thrumming.

“Steve, please, get out of your own head,” Natasha intoned, prodding him with her foot. He rocked with the motion, squirming away as she hit a particularly ticklish spot. “If you don’t ask, then you’ll never know, and you’ll regret it in the long run.”

He made a noncommittal noise and frowned at his ma’s half-finished shawl, still running his fingers over the lacework.

“You know I’m right.” At this, Natasha dug her foot into his ribs and he yelped, smacking at her ankles. 

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered. She wasn’t placated, he knew that much, but she dropped the subject and instead started to ask him about the shawl he was making, something for which he was incredibly grateful.

But he did think about it. He thought about it a lot. He thought about it while serving customers. He thought about it while knitting. He thought about it to the point where he had to rip back several rows of intricate lacework that set him off grumbling and cursing under his breath. However, he thought about it most when a certain pale-eyed someone would send him cheerful messages and eager updates. If it wasn’t pictures of his fluffy white cat lounging in places he wasn’t supposed to be, it was slightly blurry selfies with whatever project he had turned his hand to that day.

In those moments, he wavered and came so close to just asking him then and there. He even typed the message out, had his finger hovering over the send button, but every time he chickened out and deleted it. Steve knew he was being ridiculous. He had next to nothing to lose but he liked Bucky’s company, found him inimitably charming and funny, and that was enough to stop him.

He went back and forth but by the time Thursday rolled around once more, he’d made his mind up. He was going to ask Bucky out before the end of the night even if it killed him. There was no way he was going to choke. 

When he saw Bucky walk into his shop red-faced from the cold and burrowing deep into an oversized scarf - yet inexplicably still only wearing a denim jacket over his t-shirt -, however, he just about lost all the nerve he’d spent the whole day accruing. As he looked around the shop, Bucky blew into his chapped hands and rubbed them together to try and get heat. He brightened when he saw Steve towards the back, waving and bouncing up to him with an ear-splitting smile. 

“Look what I made!” he cried, by way of greeting, and pulled out a deep, forest green, chunky knit cowl from the depths of his tote bag. He thrust it into Steve’s hands, eager and overspilling with infectious energy.

The cowl was soft, the thick ply lush and squashy between his fingers. Its design was a play on a ribbed design but alternating slipped and regular knit stitches. 

“This is great work, Buck,” Steve enthused, unable to stop himself from leaning towards him. He was like a flower straining to chase the sun, desperate to stay within its shining warmth. Bucky preened at the praise, puffing his chest and shimmying his shoulders.

“It’s for you,” he chirruped, eyes sparkling, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.

“What? For me?” Steve looked up from his careful examination of the cowl. Had he misheard him?

“As a thank you. You’ve been so helpful these past few weeks I wanted to - I don’t know - do something nice, I guess.” He faltered as he spoke, a delicate pink hue rising across the sharp angles of his cheeks. 

Taken aback, Steve gaped and gripped the cowl a little bit tighter. His heart trilled in his chest and his stomach lurched. But then, he was beaming and hugging it close, brimming with unexpected emotion.

“Thank you, you really didn’t have to do that,” he babbled, wrestling the cowl on over his head. “I love it, really I do.”

His mouth kept on running, like a train picking up speed. He couldn’t stop himself from gushing. At his side, Bucky’s blush had deepened and he had a bashful look as if he hadn't been expecting such an enthusiastic reception.

“Will you get a picture with me for our Instagram? I’d love to show you off - I mean show the cowl off, obviously. Sorry. I bet folks would love to see this.”

Bucky nodded and with more than a little awkward shuffling they arranged themselves next to each other. Throwing caution to the wind, because  _ fuck it _ , he was going to go down swinging, Steve threw an arm around the other man’s shoulders, pulled him right into his side. Bucky “oof”-ed softly at the unexpected contact but wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned into him, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his marled blue sweater. Almost cheek to cheek as Steve snapped several photos, he caught the smell of him: faded cologne, musky and woody, fresh coffee, and the bright, airy scent of The Outside. 

He didn’t want to let go. He almost didn’t but figuring that he now had enough photos that at least one of them was good, he dropped his arm from Bucky’s shoulder. They were hardly his finest work but they were clear and had decent enough lighting. Really, it was cheesy, opened mouthed grins that sold it. They looked like they were mid-laugh, eyes creased and brimming with undisguised joy as Bucky pointed at the cowl. 

“You honestly like it that much?” The question was murmured in his ear, close, intimate. Bucky stood at his shoulder, watching him write a gushing caption.

“Hell yeah, I do,” Steve replied, nudging him with his shoulder. Then, before he could stop himself, he blurted, “ _ Doyewannagetadrinkwime? _ ”

Bucky blinked slowly, forehead creasing. 

“What?”

Shit.

Steve took a breath and willed the earth to open up and swallow him whole.

“Do you, um, if you want, no pressure or whatever, but would you like to get a drink with me? After class?” he tried again. The words were unwieldy in his mouth and he tripped over them. 

His cheeks burned. Where was his game? Apparently, it had fucked off to New Jersey never to be seen again. He hadn’t always been this lame, he told himself. But for whatever reason, Bucky had him tongue-tied and blushing like a kid caught doing something they shouldn’t. 

To his immense relief, however, Bucky grinned.

“I’d love to.”

The high lasted all through class. Steve was giddy. He couldn’t stop smiling and shooting Bucky long, affectionate looks across the room. The more they carried on, the more flustered Bucky grew. His cheeks reddened and he kept fumbling with his needles and dropping his yarn. Not that he seemed to mind. Every time their eyes met it looked as though he was seconds away from giggling. 

It was sweet. Sickeningly so. He knew this because America sidled up to him and told him herself. The “Took you long enough,” she hissed in his ear was about as close to a congratulation as he was getting. But he just told her to go away lest he make her deep clean the coffee machine. A ploy that had no business in working but it did.

By the time class ended, Steve was vibrating with excitement. 

“I just need to finish up a few things here and then we can go, okay? Give me 10 minutes?”

Bucky agreed and Steve told him to wait in his office. He was sorely tempted to just let America cash up and close but he liked to do the end of the day stuff himself as much as possible. And he wasn’t about to shirk his duties just because a pretty boy smiled at him. 

It had been a close call, though. 

As much as he wanted to be done as quickly as possible, there was no rushing the numbers. He counted and recounted and counted for a third time just to make sure everything was as it should be. However, the universe was conspiring against him and the till was $50 short so he spent 30 minutes, and not the advertised 10, pouring over the end-of-day report to try and find where they had lost the money. 

“I’m  _ so  _ sorry,” he said as he burst into his office, feeling panicked and more than a little stressed. He rattled off his explanation, apologising over and over for keeping Bucky waiting for so long, and all but begging for him not to think he was an asshole. 

Bucky had made himself comfortable behind Steve’s desk and had busied himself by continuing to knit his current project: a pair of socks he planned on gifting to his sister for Christmas. He gave Steve a mild, amused look he listened to his distressed outpouring. 

“No harm, no foul,” he said simply and shrugged. “I know how to keep myself busy. No need to worry about me.”

And that was that. He stowed his project and wandered out from behind the desk towards some framed pictures hanging on the wall by the door.

“What’s this about?” Bucky asked. He paused then added in a stage whisper, ‘I’ll love you forever and when forever ends I’ll love you some more.’”

Steve glanced over his shoulder to see Bucky leaning towards a framed cross-stitch. The phrase was surrounded by a traditional, floral border, each line separated by tiny birds and bees. He softened, seeing Bucky’s quizzical look, eyebrows all pinched together and head cocked. 

“It’s something my Ma said to me as a kid. I didn’t keep very well,” he said, tidying away the papers on his desk and reaching for his wallet. “Riddled with health complaints, actually, and it was just something she said to make me feel better, you know.”

“She make this?” he asked, meeting Steve gaze and gesturing to it. 

“Yeah, was my going away present before I went off to college,” Steve said as he joined him. 

They stood almost shoulder to shoulder and Steve didn’t know if he was imagining it or not, but it felt like the air between them, the tiny, scrap of space between them, was charged, spitting electricity. He was aware of every breath Bucky took. Every exhale agitated the air around them. The urge to move was an unbearable itch beneath his skin.

“She must love you a helluva lot.” It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact.

Steve let out a puff of laughter and hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, rocking back on his heels. Yes, Sarah Rogers loved her son with every fibre of her being. Her love had never been something Steve had had to guess at. It was written into every interaction they had; every word, every touch was saturated in it, thick and sweet like syrup. But Sarah Rogers’ love was not some saccharine thing, it was ferocious too. It was antiseptic in deep gashes, stern words when he deserved them, and sometimes even when he didn’t, and fearsome arguments with anyone who would threaten her son’s wellbeing whether they were a neighbour, a teacher, or a doctor, it didn’t matter. She’d fight the world for him. He thought about telling Bucky this, of letting it all spill out as some devotional offering, but instead, he said:

“Yeah, you could say that.” He said it in such a mild, almost dismissive, way that Bucky gave him another puzzled look, like he couldn’t work out why he wasn’t waxing lyrical about the woman who had clearly spent a lot of time on something that meant so much to him. “Will we get going?”

The Dancing Monkey was located just a few blocks away from Steve’s shop, next to Prospect Park. The pub was cosy and traditional; dark wood paneling lined the walls and green glass lamps lit the room with a soft, diffused light. Behind the bar was a dazzling array of alcohol and there were at least sixteen different kinds of beer and cider on tap. For a Thursday night, it was quiet with only a few clusters dotted around the room and quiet music played over the speakers while a group of college students crowded around the jukebox arguing about what they should play next.

They slid into a back booth clutching a pint each and a free shot that the bartender had helpfully informed them was called ‘The Devil’s Anus’. Which wasn’t ominous at all. No. Not at all. Steve didn’t particularly want to take the shot but when Bucky had cheerfully accepted, he felt like he couldn’t back down. This was going to end in tears.

“Bottom’s up.” Bucky grinned and winked, holding the shot glass up for Steve to cheers with him.

“ Sláinte.” 

Steve tapped their glasses together and knocked back the shot with a wince. The alcohol burned on the way down, searing his throat and nose, and the taste of cinnamon flooded across his tongue. Bucky watched him with amusement as he coughed and sputtered behind his hand, the other thumping his chest. The bastard hadn’t even flinched. The corners of Bucky’s mouth curled and the tip of his tongue poked out from between his teeth.

“You alright there, Rogers?”

“Peachy,” Steve rasped, clearing his throat and sighing. “Fuckin’ shots, man.”

He took a swig of beer and let himself slump against the back of the booth. Beneath the table, his legs pressed gently against Bucky’s. Their eyes met for a second before they both looked away, suddenly shy. Steve looked around the bar trying to find something to say, something to ask that would get the conversation going. This felt different. This wasn’t flirty banter over DMs or hanging back after class at the shop. Nothing came. He glanced back across at Bucky to see that he was watching him, open and unabashed, a slight tilt to his head like he was analysing him.

“Who taught you how to knit?” he asked.

An easy question. Steve relaxed. His shoulders eased down from where they’d hiked up around his ears. 

“My ma. I was an anxious kid and when you’re in and out of hospital a lot, you need a hobby you can do from bed,” he explained, taking another swig of beer. Bucky nodded along, considering it. He didn’t seem perturbed by this or offer the usual platitudes people gave him when they heard he’d been sick.

“Am I allowed to ask what was wrong?” 

“S’no secret,” Steve said with a shrug. “I had a bad chest; asthma, chronic bronchitis, regular bouts of pneumonia, all that good stuff.”

“That sucks.” And that was it. No simpering, ‘I’m sorry’, or wide eyes or head tilts here. Steve relaxed further and shot him a smile over the lip of his beer bottle 

“It was a long time ago - just meant I spent a lot of time in bed and Ma taught me how to knit so I’d quit whining so much.”

“That work?”

Steve snorted.

“Fuck no, but it gave me something to do.” 

Snickering, Bucky’s eyes roamed the bar for a moment before alighting back on Steve. His eyes were narrowed and his tongue was pressing into the hollow of his cheek.

“I need to make a confession,” he said. As he shifted in his seat, their knees knocked together. “I only came to your classes so I could see you again.”

“Is that so?” Steve regarded him across the table. He didn’t feel flustered now. Bucky’s knee pressed closer.

“Maybe.”

“Well, I’m glad you did, even if it wasn’t my fantastic choice in knitwear that lured you back.” 

After that, it was easy, the ice well and truly broken. They shot the shit about any old thing that popped into their heads and drank until they were fuzzy around the edges. It didn’t take long until Bucky was scooting around the booth to lean against him, claiming that the table was far too big and Steve too far away. A likely story. He pressed close, a warm solid line down Steve’s left side, and they spoke in close, conspiratorial whispers, heads bent low. 

Bucky told him about his sisters, how they’d box together down at Goldie’s Gym, and how Becca had a mean left hook that would leave him gasping every single time. He told him about Alpine and all his latest antics. Apparently, during the week he’d got into the dryer, leaving Bucky in a panic until he heard pitiful mewling coming from his bathroom after midnight. In return, Steve told Bucky more about his shop, about Natasha and Sam, and America, who was about as close to a little sister as he had. 

As they spoke, they pressed in closer still, until Bucky had one leg slung over Steve’s. He was nestled in at his side, tucked in under Steve’s arm as he trailed slow fingers across the top of his shoulder. It made his heart flutter and a warm, watery ball of feeling swell in his chest. He didn’t know what he’d been so afraid of. Actually, that was a lie, he knew exactly what it was he’d been afraid of. He’d been afraid of looking the fool, of overstepping some boundary of his own creation that would scupper his chances before he even had any to begin with. But, it seemed, he’d had nothing to worry about because Bucky was here, happily shredding labels off beer bottles and mumbling about some guy at work he didn’t like. 

They stayed until closing. Well, past closing actually. They’d been so engrossed in their conversation that they hadn’t noticed the music going off or the lights coming up. It was only when the tired, very harried-looking bartender approached their table and asked them to ‘please leave, it’s past 2 am’ that they realised their date would have to come to an end.

The night was biting cold and even with the alcohol heating their veins, it still left Bucky shivering, pulling his denim jacket closer and burrowing into his scarf. Now, never let it be said, that Steve Rogers was anything other than a gentleman. It would only be a lie. He pulled off his own jacket, foisting it on Bucky, who, despite his protestations to the contrary, took it with a barely disguised eagerness. 

“Give me it back on Saturday,” he said with a wink. “When we go for dinner, okay?”

Ah, his game had returned from the war. About time. Or maybe it was just the liquid confidence. Either way, he’d take it.

“Who said anything about a second date?” Bucky scoffed as they neared the subway, but he undermined himself by hunching deeper into Steve’s jacket and pressing his nose to the upturned collar.

“Call me presumptive but I think tonight went well, or did I misread you all but lounging across my lap back there?”

“Pfft, don’t know what you're talking about,” he said with an air of nonchalance that evaporated the second he caught Steve’s eye. He tangled their fingers together, a bounce in his step. “We should get Thai food. I know a great place in the city that does it tapas style.”

Steve walked Bucky to the train and saw him off, but before they parted, they stood hip to hip on the platform and Bucky pressed an all too brief kiss to his mouth that lingered long after the carriage doors slid shut and whisked him away from sight. It was quick, open-mouthed, and he nipped his bottom lip in a way that made Steve groan. He’s tasted like beer and the promise of frost.

Things moved quickly after that. Far more quickly than Steve could ever have anticipated. They had a second, third, fourth date, and by the fifth, he knew he was a goner. He introduced Bucky to his ma at a quiet Chinese restaurant in BedStuy where they ate their weight in prawn toast. Bucky guffawed at Sarah’s stories of Steve’s childhood and Steve had to pretend to be embarrassed and like he wasn’t enjoying being the centre of attention. He met Bucky’s family at a riotous dinner over at the Barnes’ in Red Hook. Squashed between Bucky and Becca at the table, Steve met both his parents, his other sisters, Esther and Catherine, plus all of his aunts, uncles and numerous cousins who chattered constantly and demanded that Bucky swing them up onto his shoulders. The apartment could barely contain them all. It was overwhelming, a fizzing delight, but each and every one of them welcomed Steve into the fold with crinkly eyed smiles and peppered him with interested questions about his life.

On Christmas Eve, they exchanged gifts at a 24hr diner in Flatbush after attending the annual carol service at Holy Cross. Steve gifted Bucky a matching cowl and hat patterned with sheep, and Bucky presented him with socks boasting mismatched toes and a cabled twist down the side. They shared lazy kisses under icy stoops, stumbling over one another in the rush to get back to his apartment. 

He knew it was love by the time they were huddled under the same blanket watching the New Years’ Eve fireworks on the roof of an overpriced bar in SoHo, surrounded by friends and strangers too intent on drinking to pay them much mind. And he told him so. He whispered it in Bucky’s ear as the fireworks reflected across his eyes. Bucky returned it in kind, brimming with unrestrained joy and pressing kiss after kiss to Steve’s waiting mouth.

In January, Steve bought eight skeins of merino yarn: five of a deep, forest green, and three of a pale bluish-grey. He cast on for a sweater and quietly worked on it whenever he could. Between the shop, its increasingly busy social calendar, planning for that year’s street party, and making time to see Bucky a couple of times a week, he worried he wouldn’t finish it in time. He had a deadline for this particular sweater. He worked quickly and methodically, never giving a real answer whenever people asked who it was for. 

“It’s none of your business,” he’d say to America.

“I’ve not decided yet,” he’d say to his ma.

“You wish it was for you. They don’t call it the sweater curse for nothin’” he’d say to Bucky.

Except it  _ was  _ for Bucky. He had never been a superstitious person but he’d always sworn by the sweater curse - vowing never to make one for a boyfriend. But Bucky, he knew, was the exception to that careful rule. They fit together, slotting into one another’s lives like they were always meant to be there and everything before had merely been a placeholder for what was to come. 

When it came to his own sweaters, Steve was often haphazard. He hoped for the best and usually, it worked out in his favour. But for Bucky, he was extra careful. He did the maths. He swatched his gauge. He blocked it like you were supposed to. He even splurged on The Good Yarn because he was nothing but a Big Softie when it came to Bucky Barnes. And he wasn’t afraid to admit that. 

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.” 

Bucky hummed as Steve pressed a soft kiss against his temple. He wriggled, eyes still shut, hair fluffed out over the pillow. 

“M’five more minutes,” he mumbled, throwing an arm over his eyes to block the light. But a smile was playing at the corners of his mouth.

Steve chuckled and arranged the presents and breakfast tray on the bed. Just as he settled down next to his boyfriend, a soft mewling came from the door, followed by the quick patter of paws before Alpine hopped up and promptly began needling at Bucky’s bare stomach. 

“Oof, okay, I’m awake, you monster,” he moaned, shifting up and scooping the cat into a tight hug. “Thanks for helping, Steve.”

“You looked like you had it covered,” he said with as much feigned innocence as he could manage at 9 AM, taking a sip of coffee. 

Bucky grumped some more but leaned across and to kiss the spot just below Steve’s ear that made him shiver.

Still cradling Alpine in his arms and stuffing half a croissant in his mouth, he nodded towards the small stack of gifts. His grey eyes were bright now, sleep forgotten. “Are those for me?”

“Well they’re not for the cat are they,” Steve said with an indulgent smile. He was looking forward to this. But at the back of his mind, there was a tiny worried voice that said his plan was going to backfire. He was going to ignore it.

“Shaddup.” Unimpressed at all this joshing about, Alpine squirmed from Bucky’s arms and settled himself on Steve’s lap. “Fluffy little traitor,” he sniped, sticking his tongue out.

The cat was, of course, thoroughly unbothered by the glare being shot his way and closed his eyes for a nap. 

“C’mon, Buck, open your gifts.”

“Fine,  _ fine _ . Someone’s pushy,” said Bucky, flapping his hands but he smiled and stole a kiss before reaching for the largest of presents.

He kept up this running commentary as he started to pry away the paper with excruciating preciseness. It was something he had done as a kid to eke out the process of opening gifts that had persisted into adulthood. Steve knew this, he’d had to watch him drag out opening his two Christmas presents from him for fifteen whole minutes. But he held his tongue. It didn’t stop his foot jangling though. Alpine shot him a reproachful look for disturbing his slumber.

Finally, however, the paper fell away.

“Wait, Steve. You didn’t. Tell me you didn’t,” cried Bucky, shaking the sweater free. His eyes were wide, shock and delight battling out for dominance across his features. It was a burgundy and grey sweater with a fluffy, white, leaf-patterned alpaca on the front, an almost exact twin to the one he had admired so much all those months ago. “Oh -  _ oh _ \- but you did.  _ Steve _ \- I love it. I love  _ you _ . Thank you.”

His voice went soft and husky and his chest had flushed pink. Letting the sweater fall into his lap he gripped Steve by the back of the neck to pull him into a rough, emotion-driven kiss. Steve met him with a soft, “Oof”, and, resting one hand on the side of Bucky’s neck, let himself be swept away.

“You wanna try it on?” he murmured when they broke apart, foreheads touching and noses brushing, breathing the same air.

Bucky tugged it on over his head and preened. He held out his arms and puffed out his chest, flipping his hair as he did so. 

“Perfect fit,” he beamed. “Always knew you had an eye for detail.”

He let him have five minutes to gush and obsess. 

“There’s one more thing,” Steve said, glancing towards the small, forgotten box next to the cafeteria on the tray.

Plucking it from the tray, he presented it, hand laid flat, all but shoving it under Bucky’s nose.

“What could have possibly got me that could top this?” 

He was distracted, too busy stroking the fluffy alpaca down his front to pay Steve much mind. If he looked up he would see how he was coiled tight, his eyes wide and expectant. He knew he was holding his breath. It was the strangled, half noise that rose up in Steve’s throat that got his attention and finally had him reaching out to unwrap the box. 

Inside his mind, running in a constant, infernal loop was a constant stream of, “ _ Shitshitshitfuckshitshitfuckinghellshitpleasebeokaywiththis. _ ”

Ignorant to the inner turmoil of his boyfriend, or at least making a very good show of ignoring it, Bucky peeled away the paper, opened the box and pulled out a freshly cut key. With a frown, he looked to the key and then to Steve. He did this several more times and slowly, painfully slowly the frown eased into a knowing smile. Steve took a breath.

“Will you move in with me?”

Instead of answering, Bucky crushed the key in his palm and kissed him with a bruising intensity that Steve took to mean yes. And Steve Rogers couldn’t have been happier.

**Author's Note:**

> This was complete self-indulgence but boy did I have fun writing this. This is my last fic for [@hogwartsoneline's](https://hogwartsonline.tumblr.com/) dialogue OWLs event and I used the prompt, _"I’ll love you forever and when forever ends I’ll love you some more"_ which should be some super angsty thing on paper but after writing so much angst over the last few months I needed a break to do something silly and fluffy. 
> 
> This is also something of an early birthday present for my dear friend [steveandbucky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steveandbucky/pseuds/steveandbucky). Have the happiest of birthdays when it comes! I hope you enjoyed seeing our favourite boys fall in love through knitting and awkward Instagram flirting. 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Stardust_in_a_cup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stardust_in_a_cup/pseuds/Stardust_in_a_cup) for being my beta and generally being so supportive every time I've rocked up to the writing supplies channel with this.
> 
> If you happen to knit then I will link to the patterns I mentioned below but _please_ if you suffer from photosensitive epilepsy or similar conditions then be careful clicking through to the Ravelry links. Since their website has gone through a redesign there have been a lot of accessibility issues concerning the site's new design and people have reported migraines and seizures after using it.  
> \- [Alpaca Sweater](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/alpacacino)  
> \- [Sheep Cowl](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/ill-pack-a-cowl-for-rhinebeck)  
> \- [Sheep Hat](https://www.ravelry.com/patterns/library/baa-ble-hat)  
> \- ['Ribbed' Cowl](https://dearedgardesigns.com/collections/patterns/products/knitting-pattern-nimes-cowl) (Not a Ravelry link)
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! Until next time folks! 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr [@martelldoran](https://martelldoran.tumblr.com/)


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